


One To Ten

by dracoqueen22



Series: Master and Commander [4]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM Scene, Bondage, Cropping, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Master/Pet, Painplay, Power Exchange, Power Play, Sensory Deprivation, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hardest part wasn't suffering the pain, but remembering to count each blow without mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One To Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry to my Valentines BDSM challenge on tumblr. This one is edited and expanded from the original version and features one of my dear OTPs.

He couldn't move.  
  
He was on his knees, arched backward, wrists shackled to the spreader hooked at his ankles. It was a careful balancing act that left him fully exposed to his Master's whims.  
  
Charge crackled out from beneath his armor, spilling over his plating like blue lightning. Or at least he assumed it did. At the moment, he could not see. With his visor removed and an inhibitor applied, Jazz was bereft of everything but sound and touch.  
  
“You will count.”  
  
The command came from behind. Jazz trembled, his fingers flexing. He worked his intake, silencing a moan.  
  
Master's hand rested on his helm, thumb stroking a sensory horn.  
  
“What did I say, pet?”  
  
“You will count,” Jazz repeated as a shiver ruffled his plating, though not one borne from cold. His frame felt like it housed an inferno at the moment. “I will count.”  
  
“Good.” Master purred and something slid up Jazz's backstrut.  
  
It was smooth, cold to the sensors in Jazz's frame. It tapped over each armor ridge one by one, the light clicks echoing in Jazz's audials. It felt like his spark pulsed to match the sound.  
  
“And how many do you want?”  
  
“As many as Master wishes to give.”  
  
It was a good answer. Master hummed his approval. “I'll start with ten. I'm sure that will be enough for you. This is much stronger than my usual toy.”  
  
Something slithered against Jazz's backstrut and he knew what it was. It could only have been the crop, the instrument of choice for the evening. Smooth plating over braided metal, flexible and strong. Not enough to kill but surely enough to mark. Jazz would be feeling this for days.  
  
He knew exactly what it looked like because he'd picked it out long before he'd ever ended up on his knees.  
  
“Don't worry, pet,” Master murmured, his hand a welcome weight on Jazz's helm. His thumb stroked a sensory horn. “I'll give you everything you need.”  
  
It was a promise.  
  
Jazz whimpered.  
  
The crop drew back with a soft whisper.  
  
“Now,” Master said, his hand drawing back as well, leaving Jazz without anything but the cuffs and the spreader and the sound of his Master's voice to anchor himself. “Count.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
The crop whistled as it cut through the air and Jazz eagerly flared his plating. It struck with the force of a fist to the face, but was instead a long line of fire that arced across his back.  
  
Jazz gritted his denta, hunched his shoulders, hissing a ventilation.  
  
Master waited.  
  
“One,” Jazz ground out.  
  
It hurt. More than he expected it to, but nothing he couldn't take. He'd thought the odd angle would make it difficult for Master to land a telling blow.  
  
He should have known better.  
  
“Good,” Master purred.  
  
The crop whistled through the air and fire licked over Jazz's aft, the ring of metal on metal echoing in his audials.  
  
His hands flexed in the cuffs.  
  
“Two,” Jazz moaned.  
  
Three and four came in sharp succession, a rapid set of blows that rained upon his battle-grade armor as if it were mere protoform. Jazz's engine whined, the heat radiating outward, sensors that hadn't been touched responding as though he'd set him aflame.  
  
His processor spun. His shoulders ached. His knees protested the lengthy stay.  
  
His mouth opened and closed. His vocalizer engaged and only allowed a few clicks.  
  
Master's hand settled on his helm. “Pet.”  
  
It was not a question. It was a warning.  
  
“T-Three,” Jazz managed, flexing his wrists to no avail. “Four.”  
  
Master made a sound of approval deep in his chassis, his engine rumbling. Jazz heard the whisper of him stepped closer, knee nudging Jazz's backplate and brushing a sizzling mark where paint had stripped away in one blow.  
  
A whine built in Jazz's vocalizer.  
  
Master's hand slid from the crown of his helm. His palm lightly brushed Jazz's face until his fingertips rested on Jazz's mouth. He parted his lips without prompting and shivered when Master's fingers traced his lip plating. His glossa slipped out, tasting Master's fingertips.  
  
“Still eager, I see,” Master murmured.  
  
Jazz hummed, mouthing Master's fingers. He laved them with his glossa, leaving them slick with his oral lubricants.  
  
Master's field bled approval. But then his hand was gone and he stepped back, leaving Jazz bereft of his touch.  
  
Except for the crop.  
  
It whipped through the air and struck Jazz's back, crisscrossing the first mark Master had made. Jazz cried out, startled, the dull throb reigniting to a sharp stab of pain. The abrupt shift left him reeling and he struggled to think.  
  
Count. He was supposed to...  
  
“Five,” Jazz groaned. He panted, drawing air in through his mouth. His vents were already whirring full bore.  
  
Master said nothing and the displacement of air was Jazz's only warning.  
  
His entire frame jerked as the crop landed on his aft, twice in sharp succession. He ground his denta, made a low noise in his chassis, tugged at his restraints, and they wouldn't budge. He didn't want to be free, but it was instinctual at this point.  
  
Jazz fought down defensive protocols, his systems whining at him.  
  
“Count,” Master demanded when the silence stretched too long.  
  
Jazz's glossa swept over his lips. “Seven,” he said, working his intake. “Eight.”  
  
“Wrong!” Master barked and the crop snapped against his right hand, a far lighter blow than he'd used on Jazz's back, but Primus it stung.  
  
Jazz yelped, frame attempting to roll away from the crop and his Master, but there was nowhere for him to go. Wrong. He'd been wrong. He recounted: one, then two, three and four together, five by itself, two in sharp succession...  
  
“Six and seven!” he shouted, hurrying to correct himself. “Sorry, I'm sorry!”  
  
Silence. He could hear Master's ventilations, faster now but still controlled. He heard his own frame, the stress and strain of the gears, the knocking of that one off-rhythm vent.  
  
And then he heard the crop cut through the air before it seared across his back once more, for a third time over the first mark. He heard something crackle, felt the harsh slap of it, and the scent of singed paint and metal filled the room.  
  
“Eight,” Jazz whimpered, the pain electric, one agony bleeding into the next. He gasped for a ventilation.  
  
And then the next strike came, slamming against a transformation seam hard enough to send vibrations through his armor and sensory net.  
  
“Nine,” Jazz sobbed just as he heard the crop come down for the final time, the count bursting from his vocalizer as the lash struck home.  
  
“Ten!”  
  
Jazz screamed as the last blow crisscrossed the nine others striping his back and aft, the charged whip leaving thick lines of scorched plating behind. He slumped in his bindings, the stench of charred armor pungent in the air.  
  
It hurt. Oh, Primus, it hurt. But there, beneath the pain, was something else. The slow and steady crawl of arousal. The blossom of heat that started in his pedes and slowly crept through every inch of his frame.  
  
“Well done,” Master purred, his approval joining the haze of sensation clouding Jazz's focus.  
  
His engine revved weakly and Jazz's vents whined as they struggled to pull in cooler air. He shook, chains rattling, and heard the sound of the crop powering down. Master's hand rested on his helm, gentle in its weight.  
  
“Good boy,” Master murmured, the strokes of his hand soft and soothing. “Catch your breath. I'm not done with you yet.”  
  
There was a slither of movement and then Master grasped his chin, tilting his helm backward, his lips slanting over Jazz's and glossa plunging inside. Jazz moaned into the kiss. The sweet stroke of one glossa over another was a perfect counterpoint to the harsh strike of the crop. Master nipped at his lipplates and then withdrew.  
  
Jazz whimpered.  
  
Master shushed him. “I'm still here,” he said, and there were more whispers of movement.  
  
Jazz heard a pair of clicks and suddenly, his wrists were free. A gentle pressure urged him forward, easing the harsh curve of his backstrut. His cables protested the shift in posture though his wrists cried in relief. He pressed his palms flat to the floor as Master's hand swept over his aft, tracing around the edges of the whip marks. At least his own hand no longer hurt.  
  
“Beautiful pet,” Master murmured, the gentle strokes teasing away the sting, replacing it with a soft pleasure.  
  
Jazz moaned and bent his arms, resting his weight on his elbows, presenting his aft to his Master. Judging by the hum of approval, it had been the right choice. The spreader bar left him exposed, widening the gaps in his armor, which Master took full advantage of.  
  
Fingers teased at his cables, painting designs in the snaps of static. His knees wobbled as his hands kneaded the floor. Pleasure roared through Jazz's engine and he pushed back toward Master's touch, his frame trembling.  
  
“Master?”  
  
“Do you want to overload, pet?”  
  
“Yes, Master!” Jazz hung his helm, the knot of need within him tightening as Master dug his thumbs into his hip joints.  
  
Master purred at him as his fingers drew sweeping arcs of pleasure, pulling the charge into tighter and tighter coils. “Then what do you say?”  
  
Jazz's lips parted, drawing desperate ventilations through his mouth. His fingers scraped the floor. “Please,” he moaned.  
  
Thumbs pushed deeper into his cables, hooking and pulling hard on the sensor rich lines. Jazz's frame seized, a cry escaping him as his spark swelled with need.  
  
“Louder,” Master demanded.  
  
“Please!” Jazz shouted, the last syllable lost to static as Master's energy field crashed over his like a tsunami, drowning all his senses in the weight of Master's lust.  
  
Master leaned over him and Jazz seized as he felt the glossa tracing the char-black welts crisscrossing his spinal strut. His weight rested on Jazz, helping to him him in place as his fingers continued their torturous assault.  
  
He trembled with the effort of holding himself back. Charge raced through his lines. The scent of scorched metal was bitter-thick on his senses. He heard his armor rattling, his vents heaving.  
  
“Please,” Jazz begged but maybe Master couldn't hear him because of the static. It garbled his syllables.  
  
His mouth opened in desperate panting breaths.  
  
“So beautiful,” Master breathed and his denta grazed the bruised edge of Jazz's plating. “Overload for me, pet. I want to hear you scream.”  
  
The permission rang through his audials, bouncing around his cortex. Jazz wailed, the clattering starting in his shoulders and radiating through his entire frame as overload struck. He thrashed beneath his Master, pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain, vision going white against the black and his focus fully pinned on the wet clamp of denta on the back of his neck.  
  
He might have screamed. He couldn't tell. The overload wrecked him, left him crumpled and shaking on the floor. He heard whispers, the sound of his Master's voice, and gentle strokes down the length of his arms. The spreader bar was unlatched and taken away. Master's field hummed against his, a beautiful harmony to his own. The inhibitor was removed from his helm and the countdown to reboot for his visor slowly ticked down. He felt himself sprawl across the floor, the rumble of his engines a counterpoint to Master's murmured reassurances.  
  
“Beautiful, so beautiful, and obedient. My pet, my Jazz.”  
  
Hands stroked his frame, careful to skirt the damaged plating.  
  
Jazz surfaced slowly, grounded by the soft caresses and focused on Master's vocals. His visor rebooted, vision clarifying from blurs of grey and blue, to the familiar sight of his own quarters. And then Master moved into view, a soft smile on his lipplates.  
  
“You did so well,” he said, one hand petting Jazz's helm. “I'm proud of you.” He pressed a kiss to Jazz's helm and then he was gone from view again, but only long enough to return and tend to the marks on Jazz's back.  
  
They looked worse than they were. A splash of nanite gel and all evidence would be gone by morning. But Master's fingers smoothing over the wounds deepened the warmth that bloomed within Jazz.  
  
By the time Master finished, Jazz's engine purred and he felt more like himself. He stirred, stretching out his limbs with a soft sigh.  
  
“Better?” Master asked.  
  
“Much.” He tipped his helm up and back, displaying the thin collar almost buried in the thin, overlapping plates protecting his intake. _Permission_.  
  
Master obliged. When the tiny metal was unsnapped and removed, he became Bluestreak again, all warm smiles and bright optics and door panels at rest.  
  
“Mmm. Come here,” Jazz murmured, and snagged Bluestreak's arm, dragging his partner down to snuggle with him on the floor. “You're so good to me.”  
  
Bluestreak squawked, but nestled in against Jazz anyway. “You have a berth,” he said, one arm hooking around Jazz's frame. “We should use it. I'm sure it's more comfortable than the floor.”  
  
“Floor's fine.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“Ah, ah. Collar's off. I get to say what goes now,” Jazz said, but it was with a grin. They'd get to the berth later. He was actually pretty comfortable right here and now.  
  
Bluestreak huffed a ventilation but his field exhibited nothing but calm content. He relaxed against Jazz, their fields knitting together.  
  
“How long do we have?” Bluestreak asked.  
  
Jazz nuzzled his helm against Bluestreak's. “As long as we want.” Or until his comm beeped because he was due for his shift. It was inevitable.  
  
A rumble of laughter vibrated Bluestreak's chassis. “Wish that could be true,” he murmured.  
  
“Me, too, Blue.” Jazz tightened his hold and drowned himself in his partner's presence. It was the greatest joy he found. “Me, too.”  
  


****


End file.
